Nouveaux Casablanca
by PhantomMemories
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is famous for his adventures on the silver screen, but Hollywood has nothing on the weirdness of reality. USXUK Summer Camp 2012 'Spirit of Adventure' prompt


The problem with being a multi-national figure known for his ability to escape from tight situations with a wisecrack and a clever trick, fight his way through jungles, and bluff his way through the bad guys (all while looking good, and getting the girl)- the problem with all that is that people tended to think that just because Alfred F. Jones was suave and competent on the big screen, that he was exactly the same in real life.

And this had become a major issue today.

Alfred struggled with the rope that kept his arms twisted uncomfortably behind his back. Nothing like what they were in Hollywood- with the trick ropes and grips hanging about in case he needed to pee, or something during a shoot- "Damnit!"

Well. He would have said 'Damnit', if it hadn't been for the pieces of cloth jammed into his mouth, and wrapped around his jaw. Instead it came out as a garbled, muffled- and more importantly incomprehensible- sound. Which became even more of a scream of frustration as Alfred found that he couldn't even find wiggle room in his bindings.

All Al knew was that he'd been in London, filming for his latest thriller, (action packed, formulaic- but those were what brought the audiences in-) and after the third take where he managed to trip and tear a hole in his own pants, everyone had been ready for a break.

He'd gone to the canteen for a soda, and then...

Then it got kind of fuzzy.

There were several men, he was sure of that- mostly security uniforms, a few general grip uniforms- they were talking in some other language before they approached him, but considering how many countries Alfred Jones movies were filmed in, that wasn't something that caught his attention. He'd merely stepped out of the way like any polite gentleman would, and then-

There had to have been something in that coke.

Alfred had tried to fight them off when they surrounded him, but-

Ok, so maybe he'd run into a lamp post and knocked himself silly, but that didn't change the fact that he'd tried to get away from the group of men who were asking him really weird questions in broken English, like 'What is code?' and 'Where llama?' – he tried to tell them that he didn't know any of this stuff, and was just an actor, but they didn't seem to understand.

And once they'd hit him the first time- He'd been through scenes in his movies like this, but he'd never been one to want to try method acting. It made him start babbling things about his third grade year, and the kid who he'd stolen a lunchbox from once, but it was ok, 'cos he'd given it back, and given the kid an apple too and-

Obviously not what they were looking to hear from Alfred, but then again, he had no idea what they _were_ looking for, even if he could make them understand.

He wasn't even sure that the asshat who had tied him up even spoke English.

He certainly hadn't been listening when Al told him that the bindings were too tight- just shoved that cloth in his mouth and left him in this dark closet. He could still hear them arguing outside. It was muffled, more than he was- even if they had been speaking his language, he wouldn't have understood them- Alfred would have better luck interpreting the squeak of the mice that he was sharing space with.

Crap. Mice. As long as there weren't snakes, he'd be-

Was that a hiss?

Alfred tried not to whimper.

The murmur of voices grew louder once again.

Caught between the possibility of snakes and the possibility of more questions- and maybe harsher interrogation methods, Alfred could only flinch as the door was yanked open suddenly, allowing light to stab through his eyes before the shadow of another man blocked it.

There was more babbling in that language he didn't know from the man in front of him. At first he couldn't see the face- only a silhouette. As his eyes adjusted, he could see that this new captor looked a bit different from the others. Maybe it was the eyebrows.

Yeah. The eyebrows were definitely...

Or maybe it was the look of concern that he was giving Alfred while the men in back of him were still talking amongst themselves.

"You'll be all right." The quiet voice whispering to him was accented differently than the rest. "Just follow my lead, Jones."

Alfred just stared at him, as he couldn't quite make a response- gag in his mouth and all. All he could do is try to raise an eyebrow himself, and keep that little bubble of hope from showing in his eyes.

A gesture from the eyebrow man brought one of his captors to his side with a knife... which removed the problem of the gag. His mouth was still dry though- a problem which this new person obviously anticipated, as there was a flask being held to his mouth, after a few sharp words from his potential savior.

He didn't expect the Scotch that splashed into his mouth, and burned his already dry throat. For a moment, all Alfred could do was cough and splutter.

"You will answer my questions, yes?" The accent had shifted more towards his captors, making Alfred wary. "What is the code sequence for the G-20 Morocco module?"

Alfred blinked, recognizing the name from one of his movies- but why would anyone go through all of this for the fake code for a rocket that didn't exist?

"You will answer." Again with the fake accent, "You can speak, can you not? Or have you been too badly injured?"

"M-morocco module," Alfred tried to think of the plot. Someone please remind him, what happened- "It's been a long time- and my head hurts- JL... um..."

Code sequence. JL-4-17-76- he remembered it as well as his own birthday- mostly because it was his birthday, and a national holiday. Alfred had played a pilot- hero who had saved the girl from the bad guys who had been planning to use that rocket to start a war, and...

G-20 was code for something in that movie too. He just couldn't-

"Out." There was a gesture towards the other men crowded into the tiny space. "Out. I can get him to talk."

The words were repeated in gibberish, and reluctantly Alfred was left alone with Eyebrows- who immediately closed the door, plunging them both into darkness.

"What-?"

"No questions, Jones. Can you walk?" Businesslike, crisp, and quiet.

"Not tied up, I can't. And my arms are falling asleep, and I think my leg-"

"Good enough." Iron on hemp, and the cold feeling of the flat side of a blade on his wrists. "We have to move quickly."

"Do you know what's going on? I don't even know you, but-"

"Agent Arthur Kirkland, MI-5. We're getting out out of this mess, and back to where you belong. Any other questions should be saved until the end, because we're going to have to go through that room, and all of those corsairs are bloody well armed to the teeth. Are you ready to run?"

Rescued. Like one of the girls in his movies. This was so not cool, and yet at the same time all he wanted to do was go back to his rented cottage and sleep for a week.

"Yeah- I can make it."

"Good. On three. One. Two..."

On three the door seemed to be kicked open, (How Kirkland managed that, Alfred couldn't tell- from the glimpses he'd gotten of his rescuer, the man was smaller and slighter than himself, but apparently was a powerhouse to contend with,) and immediately became target number one and two in what looked to Alfred to be one of the worst factory sets that he'd seen. Looms and conveyor belts everywhere- and a door at the far end that was what Kirkland seemed to be heading them towards.

"Down!" Kirkland yanked him behind a workbench as Alfred discovered the sound of gunfire was more like fireworks than what he'd ever seen in a movie, and -

"They're shooting at us..."

"Master of the obvious, you are."

"That's not funny- how are we going to get out of here?"

"We're going to run, as soon as we get the signal." Kirkland tapped his breast pocket. "They know we're not in the closet anymore."

"Seriously. That's not even- What signal? Why didn't they come in and-"

"Hush, Jones." the agent looked as though he was rolling his eyes- except that he was taking far more care to snipe at their enemies to keep them from coming any closer. "Explanations later, remember? How long can you hold your breath?"

"I dunno. A minute maybe-"

"Think you can make it to the door while holding your breath?"

A hundred yards or less. And his head was still throbbing.

"Maybe- "

"Good enough." A shower of glass from above took Alfred's attention, but not the agent's- "Don't stop, no matter what. And try not to breathe."

With a shove, Alfred found himself running towards the door- Kirkland's presence a step or two behind him. One glance over his shoulder gave him both a view of the other man's scowling face, and the gas that seemed to be quickly filling the space where the bad guys had been.

"Move, you don't want to breathe it in-" The gas was creeping up, starting to crawl onto their path like smoke, or fog.

Alfred nodded, trying not to compare this to any movie, and failed- but- as his head turned back towards their goal, the exit, he saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. Stop.

Wait. These guys wanted codes from him, but since Kirkland was getting him out-

Alfred nearly tripped as he slowed up a step to grab the agent bodily, and shove him _hard_ through the door.

A crack of gunfire, and the searing pain in his shoulder made Alfred cry out, breathing in that horrible gas, which burned his lungs and allowed darkness to take him.

* * *

Fuzzy.

Everything was fuzzy and warm and clean, and nice.

Right up until the dots started connecting themselves, Al was floating in a cocooned paradise of white. Then eyebrows came to mind, and with that face came the past however many hours, and suddenly Alfred was whimpering as he tried to sit up too fast.

"About time, bloody wanker. Don't try to get up- you'll rip the stitches on your shoulder." The voice held a note of concern. Alfred turned his head to find that Agent Kirkland was hovering about his bedside, eyebrows drawn, and brilliant green eyes watching him. "I'm only here because my office needed to make certain that you would recover, Jones. It's not like I'm worried."

"Alfred."

"What?"

"Call me Alfred. I saved your life, you can at least call me Alfred." A fuzzy feeling smile as he watched the agent splutter and try to recover.

"I rescued you first." Kirkland insisted, "And- er... "

"You said you'd answer all my questions later." Al nearly grinned, feeling normality settling back in. "And I have a lot of those. Starting with, 'Can I call you Artie?'"

"Absolutely not! My name is Arthur."

"Ok, Artie." From the look on the other man's face, he was either going to have an aneurysm, or he was going to be resigned to this. "You want to go for coffee later, and maybe you can tell me all about why those guys wanted me, and how you got to be so cool under pressure like that, and what language was that anyway, and..."

As he watched, the anger slipped away, and the Agent started to relax, almost a hint of fondness in his features as he listened to all of Alfred's questions.

And all Al could think was 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'


End file.
